


Storms & Spiders

by onwards_outwards



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling, Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre - Freeform, Elide is afraid of storms, Elorcan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Lorcan has a crush, Mid EOS, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onwards_outwards/pseuds/onwards_outwards
Summary: When a thunderstorm reveals a hidden fear of Elide's, she can turn to only one person for comfort - her cruel, sullen traveling companion, Lorcan Salvaterre.
Relationships: Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Comments: 31
Kudos: 138





	Storms & Spiders

**Author's Note:**

> This work is canon compliant and set in the middle of Empire of Storms; it can be read as a companion piece to my other work, 'Making the Most of Tonight', but you can read one without having read the other. :)
> 
> Of course, all characters and plot lines belong to the Throne of Glass series and Sarah J. Maas.

It’s been raining _all day_ , and Elide has been completely fine _all day_.

So what the _fuck_ is wrong with her now?

Lorcan, as always, kept his eye on her as they went about their duties with the caravan, hyper-aware of her location and safety ever since the those winged ilken attacked. He watched her help a smiling contortionist paint a new set piece while he ate his breakfast; after that, she spent the rest of the day in her fortune-teller’s tent, only emerging to peek out at the gathering storm clouds after every client. He'd seen her smile at the performers who came to visit her and she had seemed perfectly normal when he brought her lunch. They’d eaten in silence, but it was no more awkward or tense than usual. Elide had kept up the charade of a cheerful wife all the way up to their dinner, when the members of the troupe had drawn lots as to who could sleep in the wagons and not on the rain-soaked ground. She’d even given him a flirtatious wink when they drew the shortest stick and were sent into one of the wagons to spend the night. He didn't smell so much as a whiff of her fear _all day_.

He sighs as yet another thunderclap tears through the air and Elide gives yet another stifled sob. His Fae eyes pierce through the thick, velvet dark to see Elide’s tiny frame laying on her side, her back towards him. Her whole body trembles, and he can tell – judging by the tension in her shoulder – that her hand is pressed against her mouth. 

But Lorcan and his Fae ears can hear her shaking, gasping breaths as she tries to muffle the sound of her crying. He can hear the rustle of her blanket every time she flinches when lightning strikes. He can hear when she swallows a sob with each crash of thunder.

And it bothers him. Far more than it should.

Lorcan had started to consider Elide a…maybe not a _friend_ , but something close. Definitely not an enemy. Not anymore. Especially after they laid all their truths bare after the ilken attack, after he learned her real name and the terrible truth about her past.

But _this_? Reduced to a sobbing mess by something as trivial as a thunderstorm _?_ Lorcan has seen her trick an ilken and, maybe more impressively, lie seamlessly to his own face; she’s proven herself far braver than he ever expected, so why this reaction? He knows she would never show this weakness, this vulnerability in front of him if she could help it.

Which must mean this _truly_ frightens her. And as much as he wants to scoff at her mortal ridiculousness, roll over, and go to sleep…he can’t.

 _Just Fae instincts_ , he tells himself, ignoring the pang of concern he feels as another thunderclap tears through the sky, eliciting a little squeak from her. _Just fussy, bullshit Fae instincts._

But whether or not it’s just instincts, the protectiveness remains. For weeks, Lorcan has tried to fight it: the jealously that rises in him whenever a villager leers at her, the near-possessiveness that takes over whenever someone gets too close to her, the near-constant urge to protect her. 

But the closer he gets to her, the _fonder_ he grows of her, the harder it is to fight his instincts. He’s grown to look forward to the grateful smiles she gives him when he intervenes, warding away any handsy client with a single glare.

It makes him feel…like he has a purpose. And it’s been so long since he had a purpose that actually _meant_ something, that didn’t end in death and violence but in…in smiles.

 _Oh, fucking Hellas,_ he thinks, so disgusted in himself he could gag, _What the hell is she_ doing _to me?_

At least he can excuse all of… _that_ as part of their charade as husband and wife; no one bats an eye at a protective husband, especially when Elide wears those too-revealing fortune teller robes. But here, alone in the wagon, without the guise of spousal concern, he shouldn’t comfort her. Shouldn’t do all the things he wants to. Shouldn’t _want_ to do all the things he wants to.

Lorcan screws his eyes shut, trying to tune out the sounds and smells of her fear that set every primal instinct within him on edge. Trying to turn his concern into annoyance, frustration, irritation – everything he _should_ be feeling.

But the storm wears on and Elide’s fear only grows worse, until the air in the tent is downright humid with her terror.

And Lorcan can’t take it anymore.

“Elide!” he snaps, sitting up, “What the _fuck_ is wrong?”

She visibly stiffens, her trembling breath going quiet and her heartbeat racing faster than before.

“It’s _rain_ ,” he says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them, “It’s not ilken, it’s not your uncle, it’s not the dragon of fucking Doranelle – it’s _rain_.”

 _Don’t do this_ , he tells himself, _Be…kind to her. Help her._ But Lorcan has spent his whole, ancient life learning how to hurt people and he can’t stop now. He chooses the words he knows will cause the most pain – calling her a coward, mentioning her uncle. Anything to push her away when what he wants most is to pull her close.

Even as he digs his nails into his palms, desperate to stop, Lorcan says, “Grow the fuck up, Elide.”

He instantly knows he’s crossed a line. A rueful, hateful part of him is glad – glad he hurt her, glad that she will loathe him again. It’s…easier that way. More comfortable.

Lorcan knows what to do when she glares at him – he’s _used_ to glares. But when she flashes that sweet, secret smile at him, when she takes his arm and melts into his side, he has no fucking clue what to do.

And that uncertainty frightens him more than any ilken ever could.

 _Did you really think you could be who she wants?_ asks a voice in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Maeve's, _Did you really think you could be anything but the killer you were born to be?_

But the other part of him – a new, foreign part of him – grieves at the stiffness in her shoulders as she sits up, slowly turning to face him.

Lorcan forces himself to open his eyes and look at her. Lightning flashes, flooding the wagon with bright, unforgiving light, and where Elide had been he sees a wrathful warrior; her raven-black hair, usually so carefully braided, hangs around her shoulders and her dark eyes gleam with rage and tears.

“Lorcan,” she says, her voice trembling with anger, her breath hitching with sobs, “Shut – the _fuck_ – up.”

Whatever Lorcan _thought_ she was going to say, it certainly wasn’t that. He isn’t sure if Elide’s mortal eyes can see him through the dark, but he keeps the shock off his face all the same. He’s heard her curse while playing a part but never as herself. Never as Elide. Never _at_ him.

“Do you think _I_ want to be here?” she continues, her voice dangerously low, “Cooped up with _you?_ Do you think I want to be stuck with a sour-faced, hulking, _cruel_ man every hour of every day? Do you think I _want_ to be crying in front of you?”

“Elide-"

“No, you’re going to listen to me, you arrogant, _humorless_ Fae bastard,” she hisses, pointing a finger at him. Lorcan actually has to fight the urge to flinch away. “I am allowed to be _afraid_ of things. I am not you. I am not fearless – and I don’t want to be. _This_ –" she waves her arms, gesturing vaguely to the storm “- is something that’s _mine,_ that I have no obligation to share with you - because, in case you've forgotten, _you are not my husband_.”

He tries to speak again, but he barely gets past the first syllable of her name before she snaps at him.

She _snaps_ at him – snaps her fingers like a mother chiding a misbehaving child.

And Lorcan shuts up. Embarrassed into silence.

“I do not enjoy this life,” she says lowly, “I do not like wearing that ridiculous costume, letting little village boys stare at my tits as I pretend to read their futures. I do not like lying to everyone I know. I do not like storms and I _certainly_ do not like having to undergo a storm with _you_ as company. I’m sore and scared and so fucking cold – and do you know how much this thing _hurts_ what it’s cold?”

Elide points to her feet and Lorcan knows she’s referring to her mangled, broken ankle. A pang of regret hits him. He’d thought she was trembling out of fear; he hadn’t considered the cold – which he felt, too, though distantly, thanks to his Fae blood – or how it would affect her ankle. Lorcan knows through his own myriad of wounds how changing weather can bring out old pains.

“So I’m sorry if I have to cry every once in a while,” she says, her voice breaking, “Maybe I wouldn’t need to if you weren’t such a condescending _asshole_.”

Elide stares at him, her chest heaving with anger, obviously waiting for a response. He looks at her. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Unsure what to say – what there _is_ to say.

 _You pushed too far_ , laughs that cruel voice in his mind, _This is what you deserve. This is what will_ always _come of a lion trying to befriend a lamb._

“Well?” she prompts, the rage on her face as deadly as any warrior he’s ever seen.

Lorcan pauses, trying to force his useless mind to _think_ – but looking at her face, he can barely form a thought. So, before he can convince himself not to, he throws back the corner of his blanket.

Elide stammers for a moment, almost spitting with anger. _“What?”_ she hisses. He hears her breath hitch on a sob.

“Unless you want me to start a fire on the floor of this _wooden wagon_ ,” he snaps, “ _This_ is the only way you’re getting warm tonight.”

She stares at him, her eyes burning.

“Fine, cling to your pride and freeze your ass off,” he says, shrugging, “I don’t give a shit.”

She stares at him for another long moment, the rage slowly seeping off her face and shifting into something more like stubbornness, determination. He raises a brow; Lorcan knows she can’t resist this: a challenge.

“Fine!” she snaps in a growl that could rival Whitethorn’s. Elide slides across the floor of the wagon and hesitantly settles down several inches away from Lorcan. He watches her, doubtfully, out of the corner of his eye as she lies straight on her back, arms crossed over her chest like an angry corpse. The folded up coat she’s been using as a pillow and her ratty, frayed blanket remain on the other side of the wagon, left behind.

“You’re not going to catch anything if you touch me, Elide,” he mutters, pursing his lips when another lightning strike makes her flinch, “What’s the point of you laying here if you won’t get close enough to actually get warm?”

“What do you want from me, Lorcan?” she says, voice crackling with anger. And something else, too. That same fear, same sadness that’s been seeping from her all night. “To grow up or get closer? To shut up or be your friend?”

She sighs again when he doesn’t answer right away, rolling over so her back is to him. He watches as her shoulders stiffen again, cringing when thunder follows the lightning strike. Lorcan raises a hand, wishing he could pull her to him or run a hand through her hair. Wishing he could comfort her, hold her.

But he’s not that type of man.

He can’t be.

He lets his hand fall.

“I hate spiders.”

 _“What?”_ she snaps, glaring over her shoulder at him.

“The first time I came to Erilea, I was on a mission to hunt a Stygian Spider,” he says through gritted teeth. Lorcan’s never told anyone this. _Ever_.

But he’d do anything to make her stop trembling and sniffing. 

Even if the embarrassment might kill him.

“I thought those were legends,” she says, “Myths to scare children.”

“No, no, they’re very real,” he says with a sigh, “ _Very_ real and _very_ large. As big as this wagon – bigger – with eight furry legs and a hundred glinting, evil eyes and talons dripping with venom…”

“They sound lovely,” she says, the icy anger in her voice thawing ever so slightly.

“It was the first mission I’d taken by myself,” he says, “It was a…hell of a fight. Almost didn’t make it.”

“But you did,” she says. Does her voice sound slightly strained? With what? Surely, not _concern_.

“Barely,” he says, “Ever since then, I’ve hated spiders. They make my skin crawl, no matter how tiny or harmless they are.”

“You’re _scared_ of spiders,” she says, rolling over to face him. A smile plays on her lips - a rueful, wrathful smile, sure, but a smile all the same. “The great, untouchable Lorcan Salvaterre is scared of _spiders_!”

“Not scared,” he corrects quickly, “Just…not fond.”

Elide barks out a laugh – which might be the best sound Lorcan’s heard in years – when a particularly loud thunderbolt shakes the very walls of the wagon. Lorcan watches, a pang echoing through his chest, as her face closes like shutters over a window, a sound almost like a whine leaving her. Without opening her eyes, Elide moves an inch closer to him. So close Lorcan feels her uneven breath against his chest.

He tries to calm his racing heart, grateful once again that she has mortal ears and can’t hear it.

“I know it’s irrational, to be…unfond…of spiders,” he says, making an attempt at softness as she trembles and shakes mere inches from him, “But I can’t convince my brain of that. It’s as if my body is afraid, not my mind.”

Lorcan knows Elide must be terrified if she doesn’t latch onto his admission of fear and mock him mercilessly for it. He waits and watches as she takes deep, calming breaths, her face screwed up with fear.

“You can tell me, Elide,” he whispers, raising a hand to run his knuckles along her arm, “Whatever it is. You can tell me.” It’s all the touch he can manage, but it still seems like too much. He waits for her to cringe away, to open her eyes and scream at him, but she actually moves closer – almost close enough to tuck her head under his chin, for him to drape his arm around her waist.

But he can’t. He won’t push her, not again.

A long moment of silence stretches between them, so long Lorcan is almost sure she won’t answer. But then she speaks, her voice so quiet even Lorcan’s Fae ears have to strain to hear her over the drumbeat of rain.

Elide’s eyes flutter open, but she doesn’t meet his gaze as she says, “My uncle let me have a nursemaid in my tower. Finnula. She was my only…my only family, my only company. But he never let her stay overnight.

“Every night was terrifying. I mean, I was a child and I was completely… _completely_ alone. No one to tell me that the shadows in the corner were just shadows, not monsters. No one to tell the guards outside to leave me alone. But the worst nights were when it stormed.”

She finally looks up at him, her wide, dark eyes glinting with tears. “Why does it seem to only storm at night?” she asks with a humorless laugh, “My tower was the highest in the entire castle of Perranth. That high up, the wind sounds like screams. Every time it thundered, the glass rattled in the windows and the walls shook. I was convinced one day the tower would just crumble off the side of the castle and take me with it. The guards thought my fear was _funny;_ they’d rattle the door and make their threats, laughing at me.”

The rain grows suddenly louder, as if the storm is centered directly over them and a whimper leaves Elide. A _whimper_. She immediately looks ashamed, her cheeks stained with a blush so bright Lorcan can see it through the darkness of the wagon. Lorcan can’t help it anymore. He reaches out an arm, delicately draping it over her waist, his touch soft enough that she could shake him away if she wanted.

But she doesn’t. Instead, Elide sighs. It’s as if she melts beneath his touch, immediately shifting an inch closer.

She fiddles with one of the buttons on his shirt as she continues in her raw, quiet voice, “I know it’s just rain. I know it’s just thunder and lightning and that I’m not in that tower anymore. But…but it’s as if…as if I can’t convince my body of that, like you said. As soon as it storms, I _swear_ I can hear those guards talking when it thunders. I swear I can feel the walls of that tower closing in on me and it’s like I can’t…I can’t…”

Her breath comes rapidly now, her hands shaking as she fidgets with his shirt. Elide’s eyes are trained so intently on his button, as if it’s the only thing holding her together.

Lorcan knows she must hate telling him this, exposing such weakness. The closest they’ve come to being this open and personal was when they numbly told each other about their pasts after the ilken attack, but her story then had lacked all of the emotion dripping from her voice now.

It frightens him. How vulnerable she is. How vulnerable it makes _him_. He isn’t used to dealing with open weakness like this; he isn’t used to looking at weakness in the face without trying to find ways to exploit it. It goes against every one of his warrior’s instincts to try to find ways to _fix_ a wound instead of causing one. Lorcan gingerly presses his fingers to her back; encouraged by the way she leans into the touch, he starts to run his hand up and down her spine.

It almost feels illegal, blasphemous, but she doesn’t push him away. This is too close, too intimate, but he can’t stop. He wants to touch her more than this – he wants to kiss her, to hold her, to show her how a good man would treat her.

But for now, this is enough. More than enough.

“I hate being this weak,” she breathes, “I hate being this scared.”

“Elide,” he whispers. His breath hitches in his throat when she meets his gaze, an open, questioning look in her eyes. _Trust_ in her eyes. It makes his heart hurt. “This doesn’t make you weak.”

"You didn't seem to think so a minute ago. _It's_ rain _, Elide,_ " she says, attempting a chuckle as she throws his own words back at him.

“You’re facing a fear,” he says, shifting uncomfortably as he remembers the cruel words he flung at her, “A fear that would cripple men much older and stronger than you.”

“You think?” she says, her voice still twisted with laughter. It makes his chest warm.

“I know,” he corrects her, and he _does_.

The horrors that she faced rival even the worst moments of his childhood. He’d much rather endure the street fights and merciless beatings of his own youth than spend years and years trapped in one room; at least he was free, even if it left him bruised. Could he have undergone all those years of…of torture?

Because that’s what it was: torture. His blood boils as he thinks about how afraid she must have been. How alone she must have felt.

Hellas, if only he could take that feeling away from her forever. If only he knew how.

“Do you think you can sleep?” he asks, “You’ll need the rest. We’re traveling tomorrow.”

“I know,” she sighs, “I think…I think maybe. I’ve never…” Elide takes a deep, calming breath before continuing, “I’ve never slept with someone – _near_ someone, I mean. Maybe it’ll…maybe it’ll help.”

He nods, his chin brushing the top of her head. “You’ll need your pillow,” he says.

“That thing? It’s as comfortable as sleeping on the floor,” she scoffs. Her heartbeat is more regular, her breathing normal and even.

It relieves him more than it should.

“Here,” he says, unpinning his arm from under his own head.

“Your arm will fall asleep,” she says, Lorcan’s own doubt reflected in her voice.

“It’s fine,” he says. Wishes he had a better way to reassure her. Tries not to seem desperate for her to melt against him, to turn to _him_ for refuge, for safety, for warmth. “I’d rather my arm fall asleep than deal with you being cranky all day tomorrow.”

“I’m never cranky,” she chuckles, giving his chest a half-hearted shove, “I don’t want the weight of my vastly superior mind to crush your little muscles.”

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep,” he says, biting back a laugh. He hopes she can’t hear the nervousness in his voice as she lifts her head and settles on his bicep.

Lorcan stays completely still, as unnaturally still as only a Fae can be, as Elide settles against him. Their chests don’t quite touch. Her hands stay folded between them, as if in prayer; his arm that isn’t beneath her head remains draped over her waist. He fights the urge to pull her flush against him, keep her completely safe, completely protected.

But Elide’s not his to hold or protect. And even if she was, whatever that means, she might not _want_ Lorcan to protect her. He’s seen firsthand the unyielding, unbreakable strength within her – she doesn’t even need him.

It makes him like her more. 

_Want_ her more.

“Elide,” he whispers. Her eyes flutter open, looking up to meet his.

“Hm?”

He swallows, his mouth strangely dry as he tries to form the words. She watches him, her face patient and open. Not mocking him. Not rushing him. Just waiting.

“I understand why you're afraid - and you have every right to be,” he says, finally, “But as long as you’re with me, you’re…you’re…”

“Safe,” she offers softly; he doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s smiling. He hears it in her voice.

“Know that I will never let anyone touch you, Elide,” he says, his voice stronger now, “I will never let anyone hurt you.” He pauses, unused to this uncertainty he feels while around her, but he _has_ to make sure she knows this. “Tell me you know that.”

“I know, Lorcan,” she says. After a beat of hesitation, she presses her hand to his chest, a gentle acknowledgement of his vow. He barely has time to process the fact that _Elide Lochan_ is touching _him_ before she withdraws her hand, tucking it back close to her chest. “I’ve known that for a while.”

Lorcan releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His soldier’s instincts scold him; all of his centuries’ worth of training and experience crumble in front of this tiny, mortal woman.

“Good,” he says, hoping he sounds less affected than he is.

“You know, if you’re not careful, Lorcan,” she says, “You might start to sound like you actually _care_ about someone.” Though her voice still holds that same frightened tension as before, she sounds… _lighter_ , now. Her joke doesn’t feel forced.

“I’m just making sure you hold up your end of our deal,” he says, playing along with her teasing, “I’m not losing my only guide to Morath that easily.” 

Lorcan gives her back a sharp tap, as if to emphasize his point. She gives his chest a half-hearted shove and chuckles when he doesn’t even budge; he feels her laughter rattle in his bones.

“Go to sleep, Elide,” he says, attempting to sound as annoyed as he usually does.

“Yes sir, Lorcan," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Right away, sir.” From anyone else, that irreverence would ignite his anger and pride; from Elide, it just makes him smile.

Encouraged by her thawing anger, he tucks her head underneath his chin; she immediately scoots nearer, their bodies so close he can feel the warmth of her skin through their clothes. Lorcan tightens his grip on her waist, daring to let his fingers dip under the other side of her body. She shivers as his fingers brush against her waist but doesn’t pull away.

A long moment passes. Then another. Her body relaxes almost imperceptibly, her breath becoming slightly deeper, each inhale and exhale slightly longer – crossing that invisible boundary into sleep. Lorcan closes his own eyes, attempting to memorize the dip of her waist beneath his arm, the softness of her side against his fingertips, the texture of her hair against his bicep, the way her breath ghosts across his collarbones.

In his long life, so many of his most important memories have faded into vague, dim flashes: a sword cutting through the air towards his face, a girl – his first – sighing underneath him as she reached upwards to grip his arms, the smile Maeve flashed him the first time they met. Countless other memories have slid into oblivion completely, leaving only hollow knowledge in their wake. Lorcan knows he spent his first century training in Doranelle, but he can’t remember the faces of the males he trained with; he has bedded countless women, and even a few men, but he can barely recall the faces of the most recent few, much less the names of dozens and dozens. Probably hundreds.

He is determined, as Elide sighs beside him, shifting closer to him in her sleep, not to forget this. Not to forget her name or her face or the sound of her undignified laugh. Not to forget _her_.

Lorcan’s memorization of Elide is interrupted by a flash of lightning through a window of the wagon; he tenses, waiting for the thunder that will follow. Should he hold her closer in preparation for the terror that is sure to come? Or would that just be taking advantage, using this storm – and her fears – to finally do everything he’s longed to do for the past few weeks?

Before he can decide, a roll of thunder shakes the wagon, rattling the floor underneath them. Elide stiffens under his arm, her steady breath interrupted.

Lorcan can’t see her face, but wishes desperately he could. Does she purse her lips? Do tears rise to her eyes?

He smells no fear, though, not even as she takes a sharp, little breath. No flinching. No cringing. No jumping.

Lorcan smiles wider than he has in years; it feels strange to bear his teeth in something other than a grimace.

She feels safe. With him. In his arms. Not frightened of his hands and all the killing they’ve done. Not cowering away from him, but turning _to_ him. Seeking shelter in his arms.

In five hundred years, no one’s ever done that before.

A soft noise scrapes across the back of Elide’s throat as she settles closer into him, obviously still half-asleep. A fully conscious Elide would never let herself make such a tender, vulnerable noise in front of him. Lorcan’s breath catches in his throat as her hand shifts between them, clutching gently at the front of his shirt, her fingers digging into the fabric, curling in on themselves.

Lorcan forces himself to breathe evenly, to focus his mind. _Holy Hellas, Lorcan, you’re a soldier_ , he reminds himself, furiously ignoring the blush rising on his cheeks, _Act like it._

He spends the majority of the night staring at the dark wall of the wagon. He listens to the steady lullaby of Elide’s heartbeat and shivers as her breath dances along his skin, forcing himself to remember every single detail of this moment. Willing it to last forever. Lorcan doesn’t close his eyes until the storm is long over; when he does, it's only a few minutes before sleep claims him. 

It is the first time in hundreds and hundreds of years that Lorcan Salvaterre sleeps the whole night through with not one, single nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second fic, so please leave any feedback or criticism you have - if you don't mind, of course! I'm also working on several other Elorcan fics, so if anyone has any requests/suggestions for future stories I'd love to hear them!


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